


I Don't Feel Adequate (thinking i'm a monster in disguise)

by heartshapedcandy



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7996498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartshapedcandy/pseuds/heartshapedcandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laura and Carmilla talk about fairytales and kiss. </p>
<p>Early Season Two—Pre break-up</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Feel Adequate (thinking i'm a monster in disguise)

**Author's Note:**

> Title very obviously taken from "Gravel to Tempo" by Hayley Kiyoko. I was re-watching Carmilla in preparation for Season 3 and this happened...

_Tell me a story._

None of it has happened yet. Not the break up—not the broken hearts or broken lockets or broken charters.  Laura is still whole and hopeful and young. She doesn’t know yet the sound of a knife in a friend’s back, doesn’t know the cadence of Danny’s last words or the way Carmilla’s hand feels, tight and deadly, around her throat.

 

There is so much to come; Carmilla knows better, can feel the inevitability of reality crushing close, waiting to take their fragile, brief paradise away. But this is before. And it’s so easy to pretend.

 

“Tell me a story,” Laura says, curling closer to Carmilla’s side. Her hand slides to Carmilla’s lap, obscuring the pages of her book, jarring Carmilla’s attention away from the text.

 

Usually Carmilla would sigh in protest, combat Laura with some harsh, insignificant words that would be met with an eye-roll and a huff in return. But when she turns to her now, finding a wide, expectant gaze fixed on her own, her rebuttal dies on her tongue.

 

Instead of immediately answering, she leans in closer to Laura, nosing against her temple and pressing a soft kiss against the round of her cheek. When she pulls away, she is met with Laura’s small, pleased smile, hints of a blush rising in her cheeks.

 

“What was that for?” Laura asks, quiet now, her hand in Carmilla’s lap absently catching at her wrist, fingers stroking over the soft skin where her pulse should be.

 

Carmilla shrugs, smiling in return, nudging another kiss across the pink flush of Laura’s cheek. “Maybe I just like the way you feel, cupcake.”

 

Laura’s smile grows to a grin, and she shuffles in closer until their bodies press tight against one another in the cracked, leather chair. “I like that you like it,” Laura says, her hand tightens on Carmilla’s arm, and she tilts in closer until Carmilla can feel her warm breath against her lips.

 

“Do you?” Carmilla asks, more a sigh than anything because Laura is leaning in closer now, kissing her bottom lip with a gentle kind of concentration, tilting her head until their mouths fit seamlessly, foreheads knocking clumsily. Carmilla briefly registers the sound of her book falling to the floor before she winds one hand in Laura’s long hair, the other cupping at her cheek, pulling her more insistently to her. Carmilla parts her lips just barely, stomach warming as Laura makes a quiet noise of content, licking into Carmilla’s mouth eagerly.  Laura is pressing ever closer now, one hand settled on Carmilla’s waist, thumb stroking over the harsh jut of her hip, legs tangled with Carmilla’s own.

 

It’s Laura who pulls away first, jarring back without warning, and Carmilla can’t help her whine of protest, her mouth chasing Laura’s in a daze. She doesn’t even have the self-respect to be embarrassed, just craves the warm press of Laura against her again.  Carmilla knows she is a centuries old creature of the dark but what this girl reduces her too—

“You never told me a story,” Laura says, voice pitched high in a kind of protest, hand stilling on Carmilla’s hip.

 

It takes Carmilla a second to adjust, blinking slowly, regarding Laura’s earnest expression with confusion. Carmilla imperceptibly shakes her head, “Excuse me?”

 

Laura smiles, hand tugging at the bottom of Carmilla’s shirt.  “A story, you never told me one.”

 

Carmilla remembers then Laura’s request before the welcome distraction and grins.  Her lips pull back over prominent canines, hand trailing from Laura’s hair to rest over the steady beat of her heart. “You didn’t really give me a chance, if you’ll recall.”

 

Laura blushes in earnest, ducking her head, “You kissed me first.”

 

Carmilla scoffs, “I think you were the one who crawled into my lap so I beg to differ.”

 

Laura fakes a pout, pinching at Carmilla’s hip.  “Irrelevant,” she says, “Now entertain me.”

 

Carmilla raises her eyebrows, smile curling into something closer to a smirk.  She slides her hand lower on Laura’s chest, press more insistent. “Entertain you?” she hushes, “I can do that.”

 

Laura squeaks, grabbing at Carmilla’s hand and jolting back. “Oh my god, Carm.  You know what I mean.”

 

Carmilla frowns, “Do I?” She pulls her hand away, “How incredibly boring.” She narrows her eyes, humoring a glance at the girl next to her. Laura is still half in her lap, hands twisted in Carmilla’s shirt, smiling like she knows Carmilla is about to cave. Carmilla considers disappointing her, returning to her Nietzsche, ignoring the hands that are now stroking over her stomach.

 

But.

 

Who is she deny this mortal anything.

 

“What kind of story?”

 

Laura bites her bottom lip to hide her smile, pressing in ever close, burying her face in Carmilla’s neck.  “Anything,” she says. Her voice is muffled by Carmilla’s hair, and her lips brush Carmilla’s skin as she speaks.  Carmilla shivers and Laura pulls away slightly, craning her neck until she can meet Carmilla’s eyes, “something happy,” she amends.

 

Carmilla adopts that droll voice she knows Laura hates, turning her gaze to the gilded ceiling of her mother’s apartment. “Can any story truly convey happiness?”

 

Laura pinches her side and Carmilla grins, shifting to face her, cupping Laura’s chin in a cool, soft hand. “You don’t want a story, sweetheart,” she says, tilting close until their noses brush, “you want a fairytale.”

 

Laura ducks in closer, pulling away before their lips touch. “Fine,” she says quietly, her every syllable a temptation, “tell me a fairytale.”

 

Carmilla swallows hard. A reflex. As Unnecessary as breathing. “Fine,” she says, voice husking low, “Once Upon a Time—” And then Laura is closing the gap, letting Carmilla pull her roughly against her, hands grasping at hips, mouths pressed impossibly close.

 

Laura lets Carmilla’s hand slide under her shirt, and the story is forgotten.

 

**

 

Carmilla lays in the swath of darkness, breathing deeply out of habit, trying to control the shadows that surge in her periphery. There is a canopy above her, billowing fabric that encloses the ornate bedframe.  Though the curtains are tied back, it is almost enough to make her feel claustrophobic, and she burrows deeper into the plush mattress, burying the panic that starts to build in her chest.

 

It is just before midnight, and Laura is still somewhere downstairs, presumably researching with the bio-major and their shrill accomplice. A new crusade. A new mystery. Something fresh to be solved and dissected and identified, as though anything touched by this campus could be that simple.  The mystery does not concern Carmilla, but how it effects Laura does. Things are changing and Carmilla already distrusts the new shape of it all.

 

Carmilla hears, faintly, the sound of footsteps approaching the room.  She closes her eyes, turning on her side and feigning sleep, not sure if she can handle the five feet of enthusiasm that is about to accost her. But as soon as the door creaks open, Carmilla knows that won’t be the case tonight. Laura’s footsteps sound heavy, tired, and she slips into bed next to Carmilla silently, lying just a few inches away from Carmilla’s form. Carmilla waits a few moments before she turns, blinking open heavy eyes to regard the profile framed by the dim light of the window. Laura rolls toward her, and Carmilla can catch the shape of her small smile, even in the dark.

 

“I’m sorry,” Laura says, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

“I was already awake,” Carmilla answers, voice sleep-rough and low, reaching out a hand to rest on Laura’s side, basking in the easy rise and fall of her ribcage. “Are you alright, darling?”

 

That’s a new one.  She doesn’t know where it comes from, but it slips off her tongue as easily as something she has said a thousand times before. She feels Laura’s body stiffen briefly before she is moving closer to Carmilla, a warm hand finding its way to Carmilla’s jaw, smoothing a thumb over her lips.

 

“I’m better now,” Laura says, voice lilting, painfully genuine in the shrouded darkness of the room.

 

If Carmilla’s heart could beat she thinks it would break her. She wonders what she did right in her three hundred years of agonizing existence to deserve this precious thing.

 

(A part of her reminds herself that it will end, it always ends.)

 

(But for now—)

 

“I missed you, too,” she says, scratching gently at Laura’s side, hearing the pleased noise of contentment she gets in return.

 

They study each other, solemn and careful, eyes tracing the deep shadows that soften even their roughest edges. Carmilla runs her hand up and down Laura’s frame, soothing patterns against the soft cotton of her sleep shirt. Laura’s eyes begin to drift shut, but she forces them open before sighing, the sound a startling melancholy from her optimistic lips.  “Do you think we are doing the right thing?” she asks, the uncertainty unfamiliar from someone so often filled with such righteous fervor.

 

Carmilla briefly considers telling the truth: that Laura’s crusade is useless, a bucket of water on this forest fire of a school, more likely to put more people in danger than it saves.

 

But.

 

Laura is starry eyed brilliance, a sense of storybook wonder somehow preserved amid the cruelty that surrounds it. Carmilla sometimes fears her touch will leave black-smudged fingerprints on Laura’s virtue, will corrupt her soul like it is some tangible thing.

 

Carmilla won’t tell Laura the truth, but she won’t lie either. Laura isn’t some child to be protected and shielded from the deep dark, she’s not a schoolgirl anymore—she’s something closer to a warrior, a leader.

 

So Carmilla just shrugs, pulling Laura tighter against her, fitting her hand in small of her back. “I don’t think anyone really gets to dictate what’s wrong and what’s right.” Carmilla pauses, “objective morality is an impossible thing.”

 

It’s a complete non-answer, but Laura nudges in closer to her, having expected nothing more. “At least I have you,” she says. Laura speaks the words like they mean something, like Carmilla is more than just a promise of a somber eternity, blood stained and broken and paralyzed by all her mortal flaws. “You’re my hero,” Laura finishes in a whisper, pressing a line of scalding kisses down Carmilla’s jaw, along the slope of her neck.

 

Carmilla feels that familiar panic rise in her throat, words impossible to verbalize among that familiar, escalating fear. Does Laura even love her? Or is she simply a fictitious princess, enchanted by the notion of taming her beast.

 

(You fall in love with a monster and—)

 

But then Laura is pulling away, ever slightly, and the moon cuts through a gap in the heavy drapes, dousing her in a silver light. Laura looks at her, deep and steady and certain, like the years don’t matter, heroes don’t matter, it’s just her and you and—

 

“Nobody cared to cross her path, for she was as cunning as Tabaqui, as bold as the wild buffalo, and as reckless as the wounded elephant. But she had a voice as soft as wild honey dripping from a tree, and a skin softer than down,” Laura says. Her voice is nervous, and it is obvious that she is reciting, but it’s perfect the way she smiles when Carmilla’s mouth falls open in response.

 

“Was that Kipling?” Carmilla asks, sitting up slightly, too excited to be embarrassed by her reaction, “did you memorize Kipling for me?”

 

Laura shrugs, a little abashed but obviously pleased by Carmilla’s excitement. “I revised it a bit,” she says, “I know how you feel about Bagheera.”

 

Carmilla bares her teeth, a mock growl, and then she’s pulling Laura in by the waist, biting at her neck until she laughs. Carmilla rolls them over until she is on top, legs bracketing Laura’s hips, hair falling in a curtain around their faces, keeping everything but that silver moonlight at bay. Laura surges up to kiss her, all teeth and tongue and that sigh in the back of her throat. Her hands grip hard at Carmilla’s waist, and if Carmilla had enough blood left in her body, she would bruise.

 

“Sweetheart,” Carmilla sighs against Laura’s mouth, over and over, a prayer, a reverie. There is none of the usual bite to her words, she means it, fully and entirely: Laura is her sweetest thing.

 

And that’s just the problem, isn’t it? Because Laura—lying limp and breathless and shining in her arms—belongs to no one but herself.

 

They kiss until Carmilla is aching. You would think, after hundreds of years of this, the novelty of kissing would wear off. But with Laura, it always sets her on fire. Carmilla thumbs at the waistband of Laura’s shorts, lowering her mouth to suck hard at Laura’s neck. They are interrupted by a deep, ominous chime. Laura jolts away, startled and confused, nearly hitting her head on the headboard. Carmilla soothes her, a hand on her cheek, ducking down to laugh against her mouth.

 

“It’s just the grandfather clock, Laura,” she presses in for a quick kiss, “I promise there are far more dangerous things in this room.”

 

Laura rolls her eyes, pushing Carmilla back slightly so she can sit up. She cocks her head to the side, counting out the chimes as they sound.

 

“Twelve,” Laura says, “It’s midnight.”

 

Carmilla sits up now too, mouth curling into a smirk. “Does that mean you have to leave now, Cinderella? Is there a pumpkin I’m keeping you from?”

 

Laura barely contains her laugh, reaching out to shove at Carmilla’s shoulder. “Oh my god, shut up, you are ridiculous.”

 

She swings her legs out of bed, standing with a groan. Carmilla falls back into the pillows, watching Laura’s silhouette as her arms stretch over her head, shirt riding up to expose a strip of tantalizing skin. Carmilla pouts.

 

“I was joking, y’know,” she says, voice depressingly close to a whine, “You could at least have left me a glass slipper.”

 

Laura turns to face her, shaking her head, settling herself back on the bed. “I can’t believe I ever thought you were a big, bad, scary vampire.”

 

Carmilla grins, her teeth a fanged glint in silver light, “Oh I can be much worse than that, sweetheart.”

 

She should be wounded, she thinks, when Laura just laughs.  But she’s a little too busy to bother, pulling Laura back down beside her, kissing her until she moans, gentle hands on Laura’s fragile, human hips.

 

Carmilla can’t give Laura a hero, but she can give her a fairytale—at least until morning.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at nevervalentines.tumblr.com if you wanna


End file.
